


Fire Cannot Kill A Dragon

by cerie



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Game of Thrones - Freeform, doting, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 10:31:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1030649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerie/pseuds/cerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am the Mother of News, Breaker of Headlines. Mere flu cannot slay the Khaleesi of ACN.” Will’s eyebrows lift so high that she swears they almost hit his hairline and he chuckles a little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire Cannot Kill A Dragon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Callie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callie/gifts).



> For Callie, who isn't feeling well and also simplyprologue, who came up with the idea of MacKenzie as Khaleesi.

MacKenzie hardly ever gets sick, so much so that when she does fall ill it feels like the world’s come down around her ears. When she wakes up on a cold November morning and feels like every joint is throbbing, she knows that she’s succumbed to some germ because her sleep-deprived immune system just couldn’t hold the wall any longer. She always thinks of illness as Wildlings storming the Wall and usually they get crushed against the stones of her...immune system but sometimes there’s a flaw, a crack, and they all come funneling through. 

She thinks she should possibly stop using Game of Thrones as a metaphor for how her body functions because, as a woman, that’s inherently dangerous to her well-being. 

She thinks she’ll just lay in bed for a little while longer and then drag herself into the shower but she guesses she falls back asleep because after a little while, she feels Will’s warm hand against her back and his voice has a thread of concern running through it. “Honey, you’re burning up.”

MacKenzie sighs and rolls over so she can look at him. It’s more effort than she expected and that concerns her greatly. “Pretty obvious. But fire cannot kill a dragon.” The last time she’d been home sick, she’d watched two seasons of Game of Thrones in one day and she guesses she’s going to finally be catching up on season three today because there’s no way she’s moving out of this bed. Will leans down and kisses her forehead, ostensibly testing her temperature at the same time as he’s giving her affection. The frown on his face says nothing good. “Well, you’re burning up. And talking like someone at Comic Con, so I’m thinking you probably need to sit it out today.”

She can’t really afford to be out. It’s after the election, at least, but the nature of the news is such that she can’t afford to miss a day if she can possibly help it. She tries to recall if she had a flu shot this year or not and a few moments of calculations leads to the dawning realization that she didn’t because the day they offered them free at ACN, she’d been busy preparing for her deposition with Rebecca. Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck. So now she’s got the goddamned flu and she’ll be out for more than just a few days - and she’ll need to stay out lest she gets everyone else sick too. 

“I think I have the flu,” she says, hating the way her voice sounds like it’s been scratched over sandpaper. She can barely breathe and the idea of getting vertical is a daunting one so she decides that she’ll just take a day, let Jim run things, and try to get better. Oh, and watch television. There will be glorious hours of television, guilty pleasures flashing across the screen, and she won’t think about work _at all_. 

“I’ll send the doctor over,” Will promises. Will’s fucking rich and MacKenzie knows that but one of the benefits of being in the 1% is, apparently, having a personal physician on call. She isn’t sure when that happened since it’d been ages since Will had gone to the doctor prior to the whole ulcer business but she guesses she isn’t going to argue it. It’s just like him to have a guy on retainer and never actually call him for anything. Will picks the most ridiculous things to spend his money on. 

“I’ll be here,” she says, waving him away, and he kisses her one last time before heading out. MacKenzie isn’t sure how long she sleeps but she wakes up with a bone-rattling cough and chills that were worse than before. A doctor comes in, a beautiful woman with dark eyes and dark hair and full lips and when she speaks, she has the soft lilt of an Indian accent touching her voice. She introduces herself as Dr. Vaithi and MacKenzie wonders if this was one of the string of women Will dated before finally giving up on being in the tabloids. If so, she’s incredibly jealous. This woman is beautiful and MacKenzie currently has snot crusting beneath her nose. 

“It seems like flu, especially with how high your fever is. I’ll call in a few things, Mrs. McAvoy, but all we can do is treat the symptoms. You need rest and fluids. Don’t move from this bed for the next few days and I’ll come see you next Monday and decide whether or not you’re cleared to go back to work.” MacKenzie groans. She can’t be out for an entire week and expect the show to be worth a damn in the interim. 

“It’s McHale, still, we’re not married yet. Are you sure you can’t come on Friday instead?” Vaithi shakes her head, lips pursed. “No. Monday, or nothing. Stay in bed. Relax. The best thing for your body right now is to simply have a chance to recharge.” Doesn’t she know it? But it’s easier said than done and MacKenzie flops back against the pillow in defeat. Later in the day, there’s a boy who comes by with half a pharmacy of prescriptions and MacKenzie digs through them until she finds her cough medicine, drugging herself into a codeine-induced stupor. 

She’s not entirely sure what’s going on but she thinks that possibly Bran’s turned into a goddamned direwolf.

***

MacKenzie thinks she’s being attacked by White Walkers when she bolts awake in the middle of the night and she gasps, only to realize that the hand touching her is Will’s large, warm one and not the spindly hand of a wight. She really thinks she needs to lay off watching high fantasy when she’s in the throes of fever delirium but when else is she going to have time to catch up on television? Will brushes sweat-damp bangs from off her forehead and watches her with an impossibly tender look.

“How’s it going? Any better?” MacKenzie nods, though it takes all the effort she has to do that. She gives him a weak little smile. “I am the Mother of News, Breaker of Headlines. Mere flu cannot slay the Khaleesi of ACN.” Will’s eyebrows lift so high that she swears they almost hit his hairline and he chuckles a little. “Well, I guess you’re mostly all right. At least you’re back in New York and not in Westeros this time around. Do you want a shower?”

Normally, the prospect of a shower with Will is a wonderful, sexy one but right now it sounds like bliss solely because she’s been sweaty and clammy by turns today and she wants nothing more than to just feel _clean_. Will offers his hand and tugs her up, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her up. She feels a little dizzy and hot but with Will here, she thinks she can manage it. He sits her down on the toilet and goes to start the shower, running it hot enough to send steam clouding into the room before he strips them both. 

“In you go,” he says gently, guiding her inside, and MacKenzie thinks this is the best thing she’s ever felt in her life. Will’s hands are gentle against her skin, soaping her body and sluicing it clean before working shampoo into her limp, disgusting hair. MacKenzie sighs and sags against his chest, glad to just relax for a moment and when Will speaks, it startles her a little bit. Only when sick could she fall asleep _in the shower_. 

“Just let me support you for a little while. It’s the husbandly thing to do.” MacKenzie wants to protest that they’re not actually married yet but it’s so sweet that she doesn’t dare; her only comment is “You know nothing, Jon Snow.” After a moment, he guides her back out of the shower and towels her dry before offering her a clean t-shirt of his to sleep in. The sheets are cool against her skin when she crawls between them again and even the weight of Will’s arm around her waist doesn’t seem to be oppressive, not anymore.

***

The next few days pass in a blur. Joffrey is still a little shit and she wants Sansa and Margaery to just say fuck it to being queen and be with one another - it’s not like there isn’t precedent for a gay couple on this show and she thinks that might actually be functional. She hasn’t decided whether or not she likes The Hound but she knows that she fucking despises the Boltons. She’d spent the better part of Wednesday night railing at Will about how Roose and Ramsay need to be strung up by their toenails.

She thinks possibly she might have compared them to Ted Cruz and Jim DeMint but hopefully that doesn’t leave their apartment. 

She doesn’t understand why Daenerys feels the need to conquer all these other fucking countries but Will says it’s her mission to civilize, as stupid as it is, and MacKenzie decides to just let it drop. Most of the characters she’s become attached to are still alive and she can breathe through her nose again. Things are definitely looking up. 

Come Friday night, she actually feels a hell of a lot better and when Will crawls into bed with her, she rolls over and kisses him softly, feeling less like Lady Stoneheart and more like a real, actual human being. He brushes her hair back from her face and traces his fingertips along the line of her cheekbone, eyes impossibly tender. This is the Will she has missed over the last several years, the Will who made her fall in love with him even though she wasn’t looking for anything except a way to piss Brian off. 

“Feeling better, I guess?” MacKenzie nods. “Much better. It seems you know something after all, Will McAvoy. I am restored to my former glory.”

He presses a kiss against her mouth before helping her turn over so he can spoon behind her, his arm a warm, familiar weight against her waist. MacKenzie has never felt safer or more cherished and she guesses that this is what being in love is about. Sure, she loves kissing and fucking and presents and all that but it’s this, these simple moments of togetherness, that mean the most to her. 

“Good. The newsroom is a clusterfuck without its queen.” MacKenzie laughs and wriggles against him, utterly amused. 

“Khaleesi,” she whispers into the dark. “It’s Khaleesi, not queen.”


End file.
